


What Sunlight Sounds Like

by deferney



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Boxing, Gen, I'm so sorry, this wasn't supposed to happen, zayn is a sentimental fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 14:51:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/611026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deferney/pseuds/deferney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They don’t meet eyes at first, mostly because all he sees is bright blonde hair turned to face a tight-faced woman in posh clothing. He doesn’t mean to stop and stand a few paces behind, just out of immediate eyesight, but something about the figure he can’t see makes him want to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Sunlight Sounds Like

**What Sunlight Sounds Like**

 

The first time brown eyes clash with blue it’s a Friday. Zayn and Harry are walking to Harry’s mum’s shop from school, Zayn with a fag tucked behind his ear and lighter in hand, fingertips playing at the fire. Harry, beside him, has his guitar slung over his shoulder, strumming with an airy, pleasant inconsistency.

They’re not rebels—not really. It’s impossible to be a real rebel in a town the size of a pea. But they’re the closest the town has, with their fags and constant noise and inability to follow direction. Harry likes to get high, but that’s mostly because the guy they get their weed from lives with a fit lad Harry’s sweet on—not that they talk about it or anything. Zayn just knows that Harry likes him; that’s enough for Zayn to sit beside his friend while he giggles at nothing. So he fancies himself a pretty good mate to Harry.

“I’m just saying,” Harry is mumbling, “there’s no point in having the rally if all we’re doing is trying not to throw shit at the idiots.”

He’s talking about the Homecoming Pep Rally, which will feature an extensive history of the school’s footy team, featuring close-ups and loud applauding for said team. Harry’s better than all of them at footy, Zayn knows; he just hates expectation, likes to come and go as he pleases, and therefore would be shit at a team sport that requires daily after school practice.

Zayn interlaces his fingers behind his head, enjoying the cool plastic of the lighter trapped between his palm and the nape of his neck. They’re cutting through the parking lot of some local restaurant, and as Zayn lowers his hands to slip between the cars, and Harry holds his guitar sideways, he glances to his left.

They don’t meet eyes at first, mostly because all he sees is bright blonde hair turned to face a tight-faced woman in posh clothing. He doesn’t mean to stop and stand a few paces behind, just out of immediate eyesight, but something about the figure he can’t see makes him  _want_ to. It takes only the slightest glance back from the cold hazel eyes of the woman on the driver’s side for him to continue walking.

He’s startled just as he passes blonde hair, because a clicking sound informs him that she’s locked the car doors. Unable to help himself from starting a bit of mischief, he turns just in time for the wave.

That’s it feels like—a wave. Bright blue eyes and cute teeth and flush cheeks surround him like he’s just wiped out on a huge wave (though it’s a weird analogy because he doesn’t and probably can’t surf). He doesn’t say anything, just glances down at the secured lock with a quirk of his brow. A small smirk traces pink lips and he watches the blue eyes follow his movement, and can’t help the laugh that escapes when they roll in the direction of who Zayn assumes to be the boys’ mother. Eyes meet again and they smile at one another—

“Hey, Snuggle Bear!” Harry’s loud, cackling voice jerks him away from perfection. Harry’s at the end of the row of cars, head poking into the median to make eye contact with Zayn. “Want to go to Lou’s?”

He takes one lingering glance at perfection and then nods, shoving his hands in his pockets and swaggering away.

When he reaches Harry, he jerks his head in the direction from which Zayn’s just come, “Who was that?”

Zayn says nothing, only shrugs, but his shoulders tense as he resists turning when he hears two car doors shut loudly in the silence of their small town.

Going to Lou’s means only one of two things—going either to where Louis (Harry’s crush) lives, or to where he works. Because it’s a quarter to four, they’re heading for Louis’ work. He’s the ‘money cruncher’ for a local Mixed Martial Arts gym just at the edge of town, where most of the dedicated athletes spend their off seasons when they’re not training. Harry, recently, likes to wait until after hours and spar with Liam, local golden boy—partially because he likes to fight, and partially because he recently discovered that  _Louis_ likes watching him fight.

Zayn usually does crosswords or homework, the drug-doing, party-harding, scoundrel that he is. The most hardcore thing he’s ever done is when he lost a bet to Harry in Year 9 and had to pull the fire alarm—and even then he was only suspended for a week. Though, his mum did ground him for considerably longer.

Today, however, he opens the door and happily breathes in the rank air of sweat, sweat and  _sweat_. The slow classical music streaming from the front desk is mostly overpowered by the sound of people slamming into mats in the big entrance room. Zayn watches them wrestles for a bit, hiking his rucksack higher up over his shoulder. The opened archway to the left of the room reveals a women’s kickboxing class, where Zayn can see one blonde kicking the absolute  _shit_ out of some tall, sweaty bloke. He turns to the room on the right, however, where there’s a lineup of speed bags, uppercut bags, heavy bags, and double-end bags. (Between Liam and Harry, he’s long since learned all the names of the equipment.)

Harry’s run off to the front desk, where he knows Harry’s ignored the  _Employees Only_ sign taped to the counter and is now sitting cross legged across from an undoubtedly delighted Louis. Across from the punching bags there’s a cage where two blokes are grappling and grunting, causing Zayn to wrinkle his nose as he passes to a door just to the right of the cage, where he finds Liam. The boxing ring is in the middle of the admittedly small room, but the six pre-teen boys standing beside it don’t seem too bothered—too busy talking or practicing or watching Liam with a young lad who looks about thirteen.

“One—one—one—two!” Is all Zayn hears as the sound of glove meeting pad echoes off empty walls. He drops his rucksack in a far corner, climbing up the four steps to the edge of the ring and leaning on the ropes.

Liam doesn’t say anything to him, but they make eye contact in a way that tells Zayn it’s okay to talk. Because normally Zayn isn’t back here until Liam and Harry are, Liam knows that Zayn has something to say.

“Saw some strange blonde bloke in a parking lot on the way here,” Zayn says conversationally. “Was wondering if you knew who he was.”

“Blonde?” Liam asks, hands barely twitching as the kid’s muscle strain to continuously hit the targets he’s been presented with.

Zayn nods. “Blonde, bright blue eyes, got a crooked tooth. Probably a bit on the posh side of town. Son of a bitch—literally.”

Liam quirks a brow at Zayn’s uncharacteristically detailed description. “Is he Irish?”

“Fuck all if I know,” Zayn shrugs. “We met through a window—so technically we haven’t met. His mum just thinks I’m out to steal her shiny car or some shit.”

Liam smirks. “Probably Niall.”

“Niall,” he tries the name out and finds he likes the way it rolls off his tongue. Like a 99 on a day hotter than hell. Which doesn’t really happen where Zayn lives, but it’s a decent pretense to live under when he’s craving ice cream.

Liam nods. “Moved down here last month. He’s probably in some of your classes; he’s in your year.”

Liam, a year older than Harry and Zayn, graduated last year and immediately started teaching kids classes—hasn’t even considered college or Uni because fighting is all he does, really, besides pine after the girls’ kickboxing instructor, Danielle. Still, he was always the golden boy of the town, and knows everyone, old and new, by name.

“He’s Irish?” Zayn asks as one kid climbs out the ring and another climbs in.

After a moment of correcting the newcomers footwork, Liam says, “Yeah, from—what was it? Mullingar? Good lad. Too happy to be stuck with that witch, if you ask me.”

“Is that not his mum, then?”

Liam shakes his head, “Evil step-mum, believe it or not. Married his dad for his money and apparently is really stupid if she thinks  _you’re_ going to do something to her car.”

Zayn laughs, hops down, and sits beside his rucksack to start on his maths homework. He barely gets any work done, though—and later, when Harry’s getting yelled at to ‘keep his hands up, mate!’ Zayn realizes it’s because he’s been staring at the blue carpet floors and thinking they’re not half as pretty or as blue as Niall’s.

***

It takes Zayn three days to find Niall at school—mostly because he’s admittedly too much of a wimp to actually  _look_  for the Irish lad, but it takes three days nonetheless. Even then, however, it’s not on purpose.

He’s snuck off during lunch to the library to pick up a Dickens novel before the undoubtedly long training session Harry plans to have with Liam after some brunette named Eleanor picked Louis up from work the day before. While torn between  _A Tale of Two Cities_ and  _Hard Times_ and trying to decide, he hears it.

The only proper description Zayn has for the sound is sunlight. It sounds like sunlight and warm tea on a freezing cold day and everything good and right and pure in the world. The sound crashes around Zayn like cold waves from the sea; shivers travel his body.

A few moments of muffled speaking pass until there’s more of the sound, and Zayn knows he’s got to get to the source of it. Down the aisle of bookshelves, past three rows, and to his right—he sees them. Well, specifically, he sees Niall. Blonde hair and blue eyes and perfect teeth are revealed as pink lips stretch and he laughs, loud and true.

Harry, with his usual dopey grin, continues speaking in exaggerated tongues to exemplify the hilarity of whatever story he’s telling. Harry’s a shit storyteller, so Zayn assumes either Niall’s very kind or finds everything funny. He’s betting on the latter.

At that point Harry sees him, and Zayn walks over at the wavy from an awkwardly large hand. “And that,” Harry finishes, tossing an arm around Zayn’s stiff shoulders, “is why Zayn wears pants when we have sleepovers.”

Zayn rolls his eyes, “You’ve already given me monkey hair, Styles, I don’t need any more upgrades in the hair department.”

Niall’s eyes catch his, and for a split second Zayn swears he’s drowning, until Niall just smiles wide and lets out a quiet laugh. His eyes travel Zayn’s body, as though he isn’t sure if Zayn’s real, but he doesn’t mind; it is kind of surreal to be able to reach his arm out and touch flesh instead of a car window. He doesn’t know why it felt like such an intimate thing—sharing eye contact and having a moment of understanding—to experience with Niall. Maybe because he doesn’t (well, didn’t) know Niall, or maybe because his eyes were like drugs to Zayn. Either way, he’s not quite sure how he’s feeling about being so attached to a guy he has literally never spoken to.

“This is Niall,” Harry explains to fill the silence. “Niall, this is Zayn.”

They nod, both too awkward to shake hands. 

“I was just telling Niall,” Harry continues, “about Lou’s. Says he might come out Friday and check it out.”

Zayn quirks his eyebrow at the blonde, as if to ask  _And your mum’s alright with that?_

A familiar roll of the eyes is Niall’s response, extracting a smile from Zayn.

Neither of them speaks and Harry, sensing that he’s being left out of the loop, awkwardly pats Zayn’s shoulder and says, “I’m going—want to have a smoke before next class?”

He nods, eyes not leaving Niall, and turns with one last glance.

When the door to the library’s back exit closes with a quiet click, Harry smacks Zayn in the back of the head. “Ow! Oi, you twat, what was that for?!”

Harry glares, “Why are you scaring off the new kid? He looked ready to hide under a rock!”

“Oh shut it,” Zayn says, pulling out a fag from his pocket. “We know each other.”

“You do?” For some reason, the shocked tone in Harry’s voice irks Zayn. It must be obvious in his eyes, though, because as they clash with Harry’s green ones, he shrugs, “Well I had to introduce you to one another—and you didn’t say a word either, by the way, nice touch to that already awkward conversation—so I just didn’t expect it.”

“Well,” Zayn corrects, “we don’t  _know_ -know each other. We just…”

Zayn trails off. He stares at the clear sky. How is he supposed to explain it without sounding like an idiot? “We had a run in. We know each other.”

It’s obvious that Harry thinks he’s lost the plot, but the conversation ends as Zayn’s mind is clouded with blue and sunlight.

***

Instead of going to Lou’s Friday, to see Niall, Zayn gets sick. Not sick like oh-cough-sorry-mum-lost-my-voice-cough-can’t-speak, but more like hurling every three minutes and sleeping all day and throwing his phone into his closet when it won’t stop ringing once school lets out. He stays in bed all weekend, doesn’t move, and spends lots of time enjoying his mum’s hands running through his sweaty hair. At half past noon on Monday, Zayn finally feels back to normal, and overcompensates his involuntary fast by shoving every edible food in his mouth

At half past five, he gets to Lou’s (“seriously, what is the actual name of this place…?”) in just enough time to hear Harry tell Louis to “cut the classical shit out, mate” followed by a distinct type of silence only filled by only fist-to-bag contact. He creeps past brown curls and blue eyes without a problem, walking to the room with the punching bags without much of a glance around—until blonde hair catches in his peripheral vision.

He stops and sees Niall with his back to him, beating the _absolute shit_ out of an uppercut bag. Pale skin contrasts delicately with the muscle shirt, sweat glistening on thin shoulders under the bright lights. Zayn’s eyes trace past baggy black shorts, hanging past his knees, to bare feet in a fighter’s stance. He can’t help but smile.

After watching for a moment he sneaks behind Niall, place a hand on his shoulder and—for only a second—admiring the way their skin contrasts in the most attractive of ways.

Then Niall punches him in the nose.

The pain sears through him, and as he lands on his bum and grips his nose, he hears Niall, “Holy shit! You alright, mate?”

“Is this what it takes for you to talk to me?” Zayn grunts out, splaying himself on the floor and ignoring the blood dripping down the side of his face. “A punch to the nose?”

“Oh God,” Niall’s ignoring him, it seems, “you’re bleeding—shit—Harry!—holy fuck where did you _come from_?—Harry get your lazy arse in here I punched Zayn—he’s bleeding!”

_Why is everything Niall does absolutely adorable?_ It’s all Zayn can think as he frantically runs from the archway to directly over Zayn, worrying his bottom lip between sentences.

As he’s sat up with his head tilted back in the room where Liam’s training with an older bloke twenty minutes later, Niall collapses beside him. “Alright?”

Zayn makes a noncommittal noise. “So you’re hitting this hard already? Your mum know about this?”

He snorts, “Step-mum, first of all. And I fought in Ireland, too.”

“That didn’t answer the important question,” Zayn smirks. “She doesn’t know, does she?”

Niall sighs loudly, “No, you twat, she doesn’t. Not because she wouldn’t want me doing it, though. She’s never really stopped me from doing what I want.”

“But…” Zayn prompts.

“She’d want to have a look around. She wants me to do everything with the best of the best in the best of conditions with the best equipment in the best clothing.” He says it exhaustingly, which surprises Zayn. If there were someone like that in his life he’d be angry all the time.

“You seem delighted by the idea of having your whole world presented to you,” Zayn says.

Niall twitches, as if offended, and then shakes it off. “Well, I’m working on ways around it.”

He’s not bleeding anymore, and hesitantly leans forward, taking the red and white towel away from his nose. “You ever consider trying to go pro?”

Niall smiles impishly, “That’s the plan, actually. Just haven’t told Clarisse yet—me stepmum.”

It’s then that he sees how irrelevant his desire for Niall is. Nial has great plans ahead of him, Zayn can see. Zayn isn’t meant for much, he knows. They’ll never be more than friends and, though it breaks Zayn heart to admit it, that is for the best.

He smiles back, “Well good luck, yeah?”

A delicate smile and bright eyes thank him, unaware of the fate Zayn has just resigned himself to.

Although Zayn never gets to learn what pink lips taste like or what perfect teeth feel like under his tongue, although he never really sees the perfect contrast of tan skin on pale, and although he never hears that Irish lilt say sweet things, he knows that he is meant to.

In another universe— Zayn convinces himself years later when Niall’s halfway to becoming Worldwide Boxing Champion and he’s in his second year of Uni—there is a “Zayn” and a “Niall”. In that universe, that “Zayn and Niall” are a “they.” And despite social class and society being cruel, despite words unsaid and other dreams to be filled, “they” are happy together.

Zayn is resigned to that, happy with it, even, because at least this Zayn in this universe got to hear sunlight.

**Author's Note:**

> Can I just say I started writing this MONTHS ago and I just finished it, only because I think I didn't want to admit to myself how it ends. I know the ending is choppy but it just felt right because nothing happens after that and to go into more detail would be morbid and make me cry because Zayn has all these feelings and Niall does too AND NO ONE DOES ANYTHING and it makes me quite sad but I hope you liked this, it was a joy to write and....Yeup.  
> Oh, you can follow/message me on my One Direction blog [here](http://insert-witty-one-direction-url.tumblr.com)  
> Love all, give kudos, leave comments, hug a tree~!  
> -Def


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